The Comedy is Finished

The radio operator grinned. “Yes, sir.”

“Try your phone now!” cried the young man from the far end of the trailer.

Mike watched as Jock picked up the phone and listened. “Sounds good,” Jock called.

“Terrific.” Mike said to the technician, “You set?”

“I need to hear a conversation.”

“Right. Jock? Dial the weather or something.”

Jock waved an okay, dialed the number, and the technician fiddled with his dials and switches. Suddenly a female voice filled the trailer: “—perature seventy-eight degrees, humidity—”

The technician hit another switch, and nodded in embattled satisfaction. “Set,” he said.

“Good.”

Mike crossed to the other desk, sat down, and drew its telephone close. As he did so, Lynsey, standing in front of the desk, said, “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Mike looked at her, not knowing what on earth she was talking about. “Huh?”

“Telling me they started killing years ago. Why should that make me feel better?”

“Oh. Because it isn’t new to them,” Mike told her. “They’re less likely to panic, because they’ve already known for years the consequences of getting caught.”

“I see,” she said, surprised. “I see what you mean.”

“Now do you feel better?”

“Not really. I won’t feel good till this is all over and Koo is safe.” Then she added, “May I sit by you?”

“Of course. Drag over a chair.”

She did, bringing one of the lightweight metal folding chairs and placing it at the side of the desk. Meantime, Mike asked Jock for the beach house phone number, and dialed it as Jock read it off. Lynsey sat down and Mike nodded at her, listening to the phone’s ring-sound in his ear.

She said, “What if they don’t answer?”

He held up a finger, meaning he didn’t want to talk right now. He was counting the rings: five, six, seven...“We’ll wait for them,” he said. Eight, nine...

In the middle of the fourteenth ring, someone picked up at the other end, but at first didn’t speak. Mike waited, hearing the faint sound of breathing, and finally he said, “Hello?”

It was a woman’s voice: “Wrong number.”

“Peter Dinely, please,” Mike said.

There was a sharp intake of breath, then silence. Would she hang up? No; she said, “Who is this?”

“Michael Wiskiel, of the Federal Bur—”

“Hold on. Hold on a minute.”

“Sure.”

He heard the receiver clatter onto a hard surface. Looking at Lynsey’s expectant face, he pressed the phone hard against his ear, trying to hear what was going on in that room at the other end, but heard nothing until the new clatter of somebody picking the receiver up again. A wary voice said, “Yes?”

“Peter Dinely?”

“Where did you get that name?” The voice sounded like the one on the final tape, but less harsh; the same voice without the rage. Which answered the question about the tape’s authenticity, now that it no longer mattered.

“Ginger Merville told me,” Mike said.

Surprisingly, the man at the other end laughed. “Poor Ginger,” he said, but not as though he actually sympathized. “Did he come to you or did you go out and grab him?”

“We grabbed him.”

“So he couldn’t even make a deal. I imagine he’s very upset.”

“I imagine you all are,” Mike said, trying to sound as though he cared. “Merville told us Koo Davis is still alive.”

“Oh, did he?”

The voice now seemed to imply that Merville was wrong.

Mike looked away from Lynsey’s eyes. “You’re in a lot of trouble, Dinely,” he said, “but you could stop now before you make things worse.”

“Are you stupid, or do you think I’m stupid?”

“Neither,” Mike said. It was obviously necessary to stroke this fellow’s ego a bit, and Mike was more than willing. He was willing to do whatever was needed to get Koo Davis back, safe and sound. “You’re smart,” he told Dinely, “you’ve proved that the last few days, but there’s just too many of us. It didn’t matter how smart you were, you couldn’t pull this off and get away with it.”

“But we have gotten away with it, so far.” Dinely’s air of self-confidence was almost convincing; almost. “And we’ll go on getting away with it,” he said, with just a bit too much bravado. “I take it you want Davis back.”

“Alive.”

“Of course. We’ll make a deal.”

Mike closed his eyes and pressed his lips together, knowing what was coming. The clear route to the airport, the plane waiting, Dinely’s promise to release Davis once he was aboard the plane. Mike would agree, of course, because once the gang was out of the house and in motion there would be a thousand different ways to stop them. But without endangering Koo Davis even further? Very aware of Lynsey’s presence, but keeping his eyes shut, Mike said, “Let’s hear it.”

“We have our own car,” Dinely began. “The green Impala in the carport.”

“Yes.”

And Dinely went on to outline exactly what Mike had expected. The Coast Highway was also California State Highway 1, which south of here at Santa Monica went inland, along Lincoln Boulevard, down to Los Angeles International Airport; that was the route they would take, and the plane that was to be waiting for them should be equipped for flying over water. Davis would be released at the airport. Sure.

“It’ll take a while to set up,” Mike said.

“Not too long,” Dinely told him. “You don’t want us to get nervous here.”

“And we need assurance,” Mike said, now opening his eyes and looking at Lynsey again, “that Koo Davis is still alive. Let me speak to him.”

There was a brief uncomfortable silence, and then Dinely said, “That isn’t possible right now.” His voice sounded odd; Mike couldn’t quite figure out what was wrong. It wasn’t as though Dinely were lying about Davis still being alive, but almost as though Dinely were in some strange way embarrassed about something.

Apparently Mike’s reaction was showing in his face, because Lynsey suddenly looked alarmed, instinctively reaching out, not quite grasping him by the forearm. Speaking slowly into the phone, choosing his words carefully, Mike said, “Is there some sort of problem?”

“Davis is, uh, locked up,” Dinely said. “And it’s not—possible just this second to unlock him. Give me your phone number there.”

“Listen,” Mike said. “Is Koo Davis alive or isn’t he?” And now Lynsey did hold his arm, her fingers a tight bony pressure.

“Yes, he’s alive.” Dinely sounded exasperated. “Give me your phone number and I’ll call you back when he’s—available.”

“It’s four two six,” Mike said, “nine nine seven oh. But, listen.”

Too late. Dinely had hung up.

36

Peter hung up. He stood a moment, thinking, his fingertips resting lightly atop the telephone receiver. His teeth ground softly, absent-mindedly, almost tenderly, against his cheeks. Bright sunlight flattened the view of beach and ocean into a two-dimensional snapshot, simple in composition and overexposed. A few small boats